True Blue
by symphonyflute
Summary: When Neal is unable to solve a case, he is sent back to prison for a week. Now that he's out, how can he ever trust Peter, or anyone else, again? Sick!Neal fic
1. Coming home to Mozzie

Summary: Peter's promised Neal a million and a half times (or at least once per episode) that if he slips up he'll end up right back in prison. In this little AU, he did. And now that he's out, how can he ever trust Peter, or anyone else on their FBI squad, again? sick!Neal fic  
Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar. If I did, the season finale wouldn't have been so depressing.  
Spoilers: This is definitely set before the finale, so nothing major. I may or may not mention the music box, but it won't be important

* * *

"Welcome back Neal," Mozzie greeted his friend solemnly as he unlocked the door to his suite. "How was jail?

"How did you get in my house?" Neal asked irritably in lieu of answering.

Mozzie feigned insult. "How did I get into your house? It hurts, Neal, that would question my ability to execute something as simple as sneaking into a place in which I have been on so many occasions that I know all the entrances and exits as well as the contractor that built this impressive establishment."

Neal dropped his jacket on the back of a chair and wondered over to the fridge. "June let you in?"

"She's a lovely person," Mozzie confirmed.

Neal came back to the table with two beers, handed one to Mozzie, and sat down at the table beside him.

"You don't like beer," Mozzie reminded him.

"I don't like a lot of things a hell of a lot worse than I don't like beer," was the cryptic reply as Neal popped open the can and took a long sip. Mozzie followed suit, and they drank in silence for a few minutes.

"So how was jail?" Mozzie repeated.

Neal still wouldn't answer. "They had a guard check in on me every hour to make sure I wouldn't escape again. They didn't seem to grasp the concept of lowered voices and not shining flashlights in people's faces at three in the morning. I think I got three hours of sleep the whole week. "

"Too dumb to be cops, too smart to be FBI."

Neal chuckled. "I'll drink to that," he replied, drowning the rest of his beer. When he finished, he stared blankly at the empty can for a minute, blinking and breathing in starts, before looking back up at his companion. "I'm sorry" he said to Mozzie before folding his hands over his face and turning away from the table to sneeze loudly. He lowered his hands and shook his head to clear it.

Mozzie winced. "And now I have what you have."

Neal shrugged. "I didn't tell you to come."

This fact Mozzie, of course, ignored. "What do you have?"

"Must've caught a cold," Neal answered. "Happens to even the best of us."

"You got sick in jail? Can you sue the suit for medical damages?"

"No. Peter doesn't even need to know." Neal crunched up his can, leaned back in his chair, and executed a perfect three-pointer into the recycling. "Besides, it's barely even a cold. I'm not really sick."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows when Neal sneezed a second time and groaned in frustration. "What happened to 'happens to the best of us'?

"Some things you really just want to keep between you and your friends. The whole world doesn't need to know every detail about everybody. I didn't do anything wrong, so I'm entitled to a couple secrets."

"But you don't have any secrets from me, right?" Mozzie demanded.

"Of course not." Neal swallowed a cough and got up to get a glass of water. "You're about as good a friend as they come," he added.

Mozzie gave a satisfied smile.


	2. Breakfast with June

Title: True Blue  
Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar. If I did, the season finale wouldn't have been so depressing.

* * *

The next morning, June found Neal buried in a comforter on the couch and snoring quietly, with the television on and blaring an early morning news station. She raised a perfectly-sculpted eyebrow in amusement.

"Neal?" she prodded softly, not wanting to startle him awake. When he didn't stir, she called again in a louder voice. When this too failed to rouse him, amusement darkened into concern and she placed a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake.

At her touch, Neal jerked awake violently, sitting up and staring, wide-eyed, at his landlady. June drew her hand back quickly, and smiled at him. "Good morning Neal," she said, not trying to mask her concern.

"Morning June," he replied sleepily, rubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

She gestured for him to move over on the couch, and perched next to him. "I haven't seen you in a week, and you get back in the middle of the night without so much as a hello." She shook her head. "I expected a little more from you."

Neal winced apologetically. "I'm sorry; I didn't want to wake you."

June had assumed as much. "That's why I thought we could enjoy a nice breakfast together on the terrace, but you were snoring away and it's almost noon."

"I don't snore," Neal lied automatically. June raised her eyebrow again, but before she could say anything to refute his blatant lie, Neal ducked his head back into his blanket and she heard a muffled sneeze before he re-emerged, blushing.

"Did you just sneeze?" she demanded.

"No," Neal lied again, looking annoyed. June chose not to fight him, and just shrugged her shoulders and stood up, holding out her hand.

"Care for breakfast on the terrace?"

Neal held his hand out as well, but paused thoughtfully before grasping June's, and ultimately dropping it and hoisting himself off the couch.

"Shall we?" he asked charmingly, holding out his arm. June returned his smile and linked her arm through his.

June had already had an elaborate breakfast set up outside, but after Neal poured a cup of Italian roast for each of them he discovered he had no appetite.

When she noticed he wasn't eating, June sighed. "Neal…"

"I don't want to talk about it," he replied, not making eye contact.

"You're sick," she told him. It wasn't a question.

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeated.

June looked at him sympathetically. "I can make you some tea, we can have chicken soup for dinner, I can call Peter and get you excused from work tomorrow. You can rest and feel better. Would you really rather pretend you're okay and spend the entire day feeling bad?"

Neal nodded. "That is exactly what I want."

June rolled her eyes slightly, but she couldn't argue. Byron would have done the same thing. "Well, as you'll have a busy day tomorrow returning to work after a weeklong hiatus, you have to keep your strength up." She swiped a pat of butter across a piece of toast and handed it to him.

Neal took the offered plate, but dropped it quickly on the table in front of him to cup his hands in front of his face for another sneeze.

June made a point of turning her head and looking away. Neal smiled.

"Thanks."


	3. Work with Peter

Neal stretched his legs out on the low Stone wall in front of June's house, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to preserve warmth. It was his first day back and Peter was late. Neal hoped he hadn't forgotten he was coming back. If he did, at least Neal would have gotten a day off to rest, and it wasn't like he was in a hurry to get back, but he probably would have been blamed for Peter not picking him up and sent to jail for another week.

Only a minute after these thoughts, Peter pulled up, narrowly avoiding the wall Neal was sitting on but driving over a foot of curb. "Get in," he demanded through the open window.

Neal obeyed, pulling his seatbelt on and grabbing the side of the door as Peter practically fell back off the curb and directed them back toward the road. He had forgotten what an awful driver his partner was.

"Have a nice week?" Peter asked. Neal wasn't sure if he was being mocked or if Peter really cared.

"It was like going home again," he replied sarcastically. "I always thought putrid orange was an underrated color in fashion."

"Brings out your eyes?"

Neal gave him a confused look. "My eyes are blue."

"Well, yes, but usually when discussing fashion you say something like it's the new black, or it brings out the color in your eyes. You know…fashion."

"Fashion. That's your explanation?"

Apparently, Peter didn't deem this to be worth answering and remained silent. Neal didn't mind the reprieve. His throat didn't appreciate the wear and tear talking required, and his ability to fight the urge to sneeze required a greater deal of concentration than he had while holding a conversation.

They drove in silence, and Neal didn't even realize more than a few seconds had passed when they arrived at the FBI building. "We're here. What the hell are you doing?"

Neal was wiggling his nose around his face, trying to dislodge an annoying tickle because he wasn't sneezing in front of Peter if it was the last thing he did. "Nothing."

"You're making faces."

"No, I'm not." Neal gave his partner his patented charming grin. "Let's get to work, unless you were planning on sitting around in your car all day." His voice cracked on the last word, and Peter narrowed his eyes.

"Neal…"

"Want to race?" Neal let himself out of the car and began walking quickly toward the building.

"Neal!" Peter grabbed his briefcase from the backseat, locked the door, and attempted to catch up to the conman. When he did, panting slightly, he clamped a hand on the younger man's shoulder and led him to the elevator. "Now I've caught you three times."

It was a joke. Neal didn't laugh. "Yeah, yeah. We know you can catch me. Who's next?"

"The él Ladrón." Peter led Neal into the office and handed him a file, which Neal began flipping idly through, though he was more focused on not coughing or sneezing than learning about the thief. "He has stolen a few paintings over the years, one sculpture, always leaves a card. He's been an open case for a few years now, but nothing serious to put that much time and man power on. Until now."

"Because he stole an original Francisco Flores," Neal supplied, having finished the file.

"That's right. The 'Stars Reflected in Water," was taken from the Met last night. It's worth almost $600 grand, and it's on loan from the Le Louvre. If we don't get it back, we're going to have some pissed off French people on our hands."

Peter, having finished his speech, stood looking out the window with his hands in his pockets, deep in thought over who could have stolen this painting. Neal took the opportunity to rub at his nose with a tissue he grabbed from the box on the counter. His nose had been running since he's gotten out of the car and into the wind, but he didn't want to risk sniffling too deeply for fear of Peter hearing.

When Peter turned back around, Neal quickly crushed the tissue in his pocket. It wasn't until Peter asked "what are you doing?" that Neal realized the glass was slightly reflective.


End file.
